


A Hero's Incidents

by NewSpy



Series: How Carlos Mendez Joined Tony Stark's Mad Scientist Club [2]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Awkward Carlos, Carlos and Cecil Don't Know What They're Doing, Carlos is a Dork, Comfort Food, Dot Day, Gen, Misuse of paperwork, Paper Spiders, The Author Regrets Nothing, This Went in an Interesting Direction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-11 20:28:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2082063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NewSpy/pseuds/NewSpy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Several incidents that occur to Carlos in "I'm Not a Hero" that aren't vital to the main story. They're exactly as the title says: incidents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 3.5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlos and Cecil have a serious conversation before a certain incident involving a blue dot and SHIELD paperwork draws Carlos back to the lab.
> 
> Takes place after "Glow Cloud" in I'm Not a Hero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A story spawns. The author looks at it and asks, "This is an odd direction to go. Are you sure you want to go in this direction?" To which the story replies, "Whose existence is this, mine or yours?"
> 
> Chapter edited 6-9-16

When Carlos wakes up Sunday after the whole Glow Cloud debacle, he’s greeted with several sheets of blue and red dots. He blinks at it for a moment, propped up on his elbows as he considers it. His arms slide out from under him, and he flops back onto the bed with a groan. Ugh, it’s too early for this mess. The team had been up for far longer than normal in the usual last-minute rush to get all their reports in to a demanding AD Hill.

With a fortifying breath, he pushes himself out of bed and gets ready for the day. Once he’s dressed and armed with a mandatory cup of coffee, he heads down stairs with his pages of dots. Most of his team is already there, bleary eyed and awakening under the influence of blessed caffeine.

He knows the answer before he does it, but Carlos still holds up his dot sheets. All of his security team and scientists hold up sheets as well. “Check the calendar someone?” he asks, and Nils obliges. “Dot day,” she reads around a yawn and sip of coffee. “Red for love, blue for hate.” She hums contemplatively. “Guess all of you get red dots then. Cause I sure do love all you guys, and I guess there’s no harm in showing it.”

“What?” Stan asks, blinking. After he and C.C. woke up, they’d been fine with no recollection of what happened to them. The team still kept a close eye on them, but they _seemed_ completely fine. “Why should we?”

“Cause we’re here and we need to blend in. And why not participate? There’s no harm in it,” Nils explains as she puts a red dot on Rachelle's and Cass' nose.

“That’s stupid,” Dave, who is a always a grouch in the morning, mutters. “Do we have to do this?” The question is directed at Carlos, who glances up from a file to see everyone staring expectantly at him. And because they’re good, loyal people, they’d do what he says, even if he tells Nils to put the dots away; he won’t because the Nils and Rachelle are giving him those puppy dog looks that are overwhelming and pathetic and hopeful all out once.

He snaps the folder shut and sighs. “If you want to participate, that’s fine, but if you don’t want to, that’s alright.”

Nils and Rachelle squeal, throwing their arms around him in a crushing hug. He’s not too sure what they’re squealing, but it’s something along the lines of thank you. He thinks. He's gotten pretty good at understanding noises like that thanks to his little sister.

When they finally pull back, he sees everyone’s smiles and it warms him. He blinks as Nils and Rachelle press dots onto the apples of his cheeks. With a small grin, he presses dots into the middle of their foreheads.

They laugh, and he’s laughing, and everyone’s happy as they stick each other with dots. Within minutes, every SHIELD agent, highly specialized and disciplined individuals that were handpicked for this dangerous assignment in Night Vale, is covered with nine red dots, one from every other member of the team. “We should probably be heading out,” Dave observes at last, checking his watch. “You gonna come with us boss?”

Carlos, still grinning, nods. “Sure. Finished up all those reports for the Assistant Director yesterday. It’ll be fun. Just let me grab my radio, I’ll be back in a minute.” He pretends not to notice his team’s grins as he heads upstairs. Those are their triumphant _yeah, we finally got our hermit of a boss out of the lab_ smiles.

It only takes him a moment to grab the radio off his desk, but he hesitates. His eyes are drawn to his drawer on his nightstand as he smiles as he pulls it open. In it is a small photo album his siblings gave him for his birthday a year or two ago.

He flips the album open with a little grin. The first picture is of him right after the twins were born, his chubby three-year-old face bright with excitement as his then six-year-old sister held him. There was the four of them on his first day of high school, a look of nervous excitement on his face because he was always the youngest in his class. All of them at the burger joint right by their favorite beach, the salt water plastering their hair to their faces as they scarf down burgers after a day at the beach. Him and his big sister right before she left for her first deployment. There's him at his college graduation, right after he got his doctorate. His big sister's wedding; his sisters in a picture together with his older sister's baby bump just showing; Carlos, his younger brother, and his brother-in-law; all of them at the hospital after Carlos' niece was born.

A fond smile finds its way on Carlos' face as he studies each face intently. The photo album is a reminder for him, of why he does what he does, of who he's doing this for. His family, the people he loves and cares for, is the reason he works for SHIELD. It's not always easy, but he keeps doing it. It's just like his mamá told him after a rough first week of high school: today is better than yesterday. Tomorrow will be better. And that's alright.

He smooths a red dot over the photo album before replacing it with all the care it deserves.

He's just starting to feel a wave of nostalgia when he catches sight of himself in the mirror. He’s covered in red dots, one on the apple of each cheek and seven making up a smiley face on his forehead. This makes him grin, warm and happy, as he heads downstairs to the lab, lab coat billowing behind him.

“Okay,” he says to the milling group, “which of you jokers is responsible for the damn smiley face?” Everybody snickers and starts pointing fingers, chorusing, “He did it!”, “She did it!”, “No you did!”, and other such things.

When the team leaves the lab, armed with equipment and sheets of dots and excited grins, Carlos feels happier than he can remember being in a long time.

/=\=/=\ 

The moon is barely over the horizon when Cecil arrives, surprising C.C. and Carlos with his silent steps. “Good evening my beautiful Carlos.”

Both men jump, whirling around to face the radio show host who stands a few feet behind them with a pleasant grin. It would be more reassuring if his eyes aren’t shining mischievously and his teeth aren’t pointed to sharp angles. Tonight, Cecil is wearing dark grey slacks, an indigo dress shirt, and a black dress jacket tossed over his arm.

All in all, Cecil looks very good. Which is why Carlos can’t comprehend why someone as intelligent and dapper looking as Cecil can be “in love” with Carlos, who wears ratty flannel shirts, faded jeans, and his ever-present lab coat.

“Oh, um, hello, Cecil,” Carlos says, heart still racing ever so slightly from the shock of Cecil seemingly appearing from nowhere. C.C. nods his greeting as he hovers behind Carlos, no doubt with a stony look of protection and a hand hovering over his gun.

Cecil makes no threatening movement though, just smiles as he says, “It looks like someone’s been enjoying dot day.”

Carlos blushes and resists the urge to slap a hand over his forehead. “Ah, yes, everyone on my team is a joker.” He gives C.C. a not at all amused look. For his part, C.C. looks completely unrepentant.

“Hey, what can I say, boss? You can make the smiley face work.” Cecil laughs at that, the sound clear and ringing in a way that makes Carlos want to laugh too. There’s something genuine and almost childlike about the way Cecil laughs, something completely honest in a way that says he never laughs unless he means it.

“I agree with Mr…?” Cecil’s voice trails off, his inflection implying a question.

The security guard waves an easy hand. “Call me C.C.”

Cecil nods, expression stretched into an easy smile. “C.C. then. I suppose it’s rather redundant, but I’m Cecil. It’s important to introduce yourself properly, wouldn’t you say? If not, you miss a step, and who knows what you’ll fall into if you miss a step.” Cecil’s voice takes on a dreamy, considering voice, one that’s thoughtful and thoughtless crammed into one. Cecil, who’d stared at the moon as he mused, glances to meet Carlos' eyes with a strange look.

For a moment, Carlos swears Cecil’s dark pupils are replaced with thin silver crescents, much like the moon hanging above him.

Then Cecil’s twisting tattoos catch his attention as they move in twisting patterns around Cecil’s arms. There’s so _many_. Carlos can identify alchemical symbols, ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics, ancient Greek characters, native American symbols, and even more unfamiliar ones.

Before the moment grows so tense as to snap (which is where’s it’s heading at this rate), Carlos' walkie-talkie chirps wildly. Fumbling as he bobbles his equipment in one hand and the talkie and radio in the other, he eventually manages to clip the device from his belt.

“Carlos here.”

“Um,” comes Stan's voice, hesitant and vaguely panicky in the way he hums the filler. “You might want to head back to the lab Carlos. Like, now. We may have a situation. And can C.C. come too? I think C.C. should come.”

“ _Dios Mio_ , Stan, I know I’ll regret it, but what kind of situation are we looking at?”

A beat of silence. Then: “Spiders. Living spider made of paper, spinning webs in our labs with what looks like ink for venom.”

Carlos pinches the bridge of his nose. “Right. Of course. And where, pray tell, did the paper come from?”

Carlos already suspects the answer, and his hypothesis is proven correct when Stan mumbles, “Our paperwork, sir.”

C.C., who’d seemed vaguely horrified thus far, and Cecil, who appeared silently amused by either the situation or the other men's reactions, both let out a sigh. And then Cecil is in Mendez’s personal space, far into his personal space, leaning over his shoulder to speak directly into the walkie-talkie. “You put a blue dot on it, didn’t you? The paperwork, I mean.”

“Oh, um, Cecil, hey, yeah, I put a blue dot on it,” Stan splutters, shocked by Cecil’s sudden presence. To be fair, so is Carlos, who’s rigid as Cecil’s chest is nearly pressed into his back.

Carlos shoots C.C. a grateful look when he distracts Cecil, gaining Carlos some much needed space. Carlos' lungs expand with a shuddering breath as Cecil explains into C.C.’s walkie-talkie, “To get rid of them, just take the blue dot off.” As if it’s obvious.

“I don’t know how that’s gonna work Cecil,” Stan huffs. “The things are aggressive, and I think the one with the blue dot is on the _ceiling_.”

Of course the damn thing is.

“Everybody back to the lab,” Carlos groans through his walkie-talkie. “We need to take care of this now.”

He’s met with a chorus of confirmations; C.C.’s already half way down the street. Collecting his gear, Carlos is about to follow when Cecil says, “Wait, Carlos!”

The scientist pauses obligingly, turning to see Cecil staring at his shoes, a frown puckered across his face. The man takes a deep breath and says in a steady way, “I’m sorry for making you feel uncomfortable.”

Carlos sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Cecil, look, it’s not a big deal--”

“Yes it is!” Cecil interrupts, head shaking vehemently enough to send starlight silver hair going everywhere. “It is a big deal Carlos! You feel uncomfortable, I make you feel uncomfortable Carlos, that’s not fair to you! I, I didn’t mean to, I just…” His eyes slide from Carlos' to his shoes as he mumbles, “I just want to help. But not if you’re at all uncomfortable with me.”

Carlos heart does a funny little flip in his chest as he blushes up to the roots of his hair. “Cecil, I’m not uncomfortable with you. It’s just, I've never been good with relationships or people who have romantic feelings for me, and it makes me awkward and kind of embarrassed, like when you talk about me on the radio, but you don’t… You’ve never made me uncomfortable. I promise.” He hesitates, then adds, “Where I came from, people just don’t fall in love at first sight.”

Cecil gives him a sad look. “That’s a very lonely place you come from then, Carlos.”

Carlos thinks of his empty apartment he went home to after work. Thinks of all the relationships that sort of crumpled in on themselves. “Yeah, it can be sometimes.” He manages to smile at Cecil. “It’s not so lonely anymore. Today is better than yesterday. Tomorrow will be a little better. And that’s alright.”

Cecil smiles back just a bit, his pointed teeth suddenly not so intimidating. “That’s a beautiful thing to say Carlos.”

Carlos shrugs. “It helps with a lot. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to make sure my team isn’t being bested by a bunch of paper spiders. Because that’s pathetic, even for them, and I refuse to fill out the paperwork for _that_. I don't even thine there _is_ paperwork for that situation.”

Cecil laughs once more, ringing and true. “Of course, my dear Carlos, of course. Can I give you something before you leave?”

“Depends on what it is.”

“Just this.” Cecil grabs Carlos' right wrist in a careful grip, tight enough to bring the appendage closer but loose enough for Carlos to pull back if he wants to. He doesn’t, and Cecil places a red dot on the inside of his wrist, just above the pulse point, with cool, gentle fingers. “There you go,” Cecil beams, still holding onto Carlos' wrist.

“Ah, thanks Cecil,” Carlos mutters, gently pulling his arm closer to his body.

“No problem, dear Carlos. I’d best be going myself. Station management tends to get fussy and add an extra hour onto their required ritual keening if I’m late. Good luck with the spiders.”

“Good luck with your bosses.”

Something warm fills Carlos' chest as he watches Cecil scurry away, tugging his jacket on. Cecil isn’t so bad. Not really.

If anything, Cecil makes Carlos think of a lovestruck teenager. And it amazes him that anyone can be fascinated with _him_ in such a way.

C.C.’s voice crackles over the walkie-talkie. “You coming boss?”

“Yeah C.C.,” Carlos replies, a small smile curling across his face. “ETA is five.”

“Good. Cause these things are pissed off and the more, the merrier.”


	2. 4.5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlos comforts Cecil with a long-standing family tradition: food, and lots of it.
> 
> Takes place after "Station Management" in I'm Not a Hero.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter edited 6-9-16

Cecil’s shaking by the time he gets to his apartment, a fine tremor running through his whole body. It’s bad enough that takes him a few tries to get his key into the lock, and the sight of the interior of his messy little apartment as he walks in is enough to make his knees wobble with relief. He means to try to go to the couch at the very least, but as soon as he locks all three locks on his door, his knees give out.

He’s not really sure how long he sits in front of the door, knees pressed to his chest, hands in his hair, as he struggles to reel his panic in. Because even now, in the sanctity of his own home, he can still hear management wandering through the station, the click of whatever they have for feet and the hissing-steam sound and--

Cecil’s throat throbs, or, more specifically, the scars on either side of his throat, and oh God, he can barely breathe, it feels like something’s _choking_ him. He’s not sure how, but he manages to stumble to his bedroom, fingers clawing at his tie and fumbling with the top few buttons of his shirt along the way.

When he finally falls onto his bed, he’s breathing hard and fast, gasping as an unseen force continues to press upon his windpipe. His tanned skin is ashen as sweat beads across his face, and he can feel his pale hair clinging to his forehead. His eyes are pressed shut tightly, and his tattoos are writhing in hysterical confusion that leaves the normally orderly marks in illegible tangle.

With his tie and shirt undone, he can feel the scars on either side of his throat that his collared shirts usually hide. He doesn't remember how or when he got them, but they're there, regardless: two marks, almost touching his shoulders, slightly raised to the touch and about an inch by a quarter of an inch. The pair of scars are normally cool and slick to the touch but now feel warm to the touch.

Concerning. Very concerning.

He presses his hands into his face into his hands and lets out a muffled groan into the palms of his hands. He's exhausted down to his bones and doesn't have the energy to worry about that now. He needs a shower. A shower and a meal. That sounds wonderful to Cecil, so he gathers up his comfiest pajamas (soft purple flannel pajama pants and his favorite over sized sweater reserved for those Really Bad Days, of which today is most definitely one) before retreating to his bathroom.

It feels good to take a shower that’s as long and hot as he can tolerate, letting the steaming liquid scrub away terror sweat and soothe stiff muscles. When the heat and steam is finally too much to bear, he steps out of the shower, avoiding looking at the mirror as he always does. He doesn't need to see all the scars he doesn't remember getting, especially not when the ones on his throat are still pink and raw.

Instead he just pulls on his pajamas and hugs himself for a moment, taking comfort in the old, pleasantly worn clothing. After going to his bedroom to find his best fuzzy (non-slide, because he’s a klutz that can trip over his own feet without sliding around) socks and wanders into the kitchen. He pokes around his fridge and cabinets for a few moments before deciding none of his leftovers look appealing and he doesn't have enough energy to make anything complicated. With that in mind, he decides to make cream of mushroom soup from a can, because that’s easy and good and something he can manage.

The soup is simmering on the stove for maybe fifteen minutes before it’s ready, and Cecil finally settles onto the couch with his soup, secure in his favorite pajamas and the worn blanket he’s had for as long as he could remember by seven-ish.

He’s halfway through his soup and the Mean Girls when the doorbell rings. Huh. It takes a moment of flailing, but Cecil manages to extract himself from his blanket to answer the door and squeaks in shock when he sees-- “Carlos!”

“Um, yeah, uh, hey Cecil,” he greets, running a hand through his (sadly shortened) curls, cheeks dark as he blushes. The blush, along with the way Carlos can’t quite look at him, is oddly endearing in that way only Carlos can manage. “I just wanted to, um, see if you’re okay after everything that happened with management.”

“Oh!” Cecil exclaims, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. It’s been a very long time since someone besides Old Woman Josie or his old friend Earl have bothered to check up on him. Carlos glances up at them, meeting his eyes for the first time, and Cecil feels the heat rise to his cheeks as he blushes, suddenly aware of just how unflattering his clothes look on him and how messy his apartment is. “Um, do you want to come in, or, like…?”

His voice trails off, the upward inflection leaving it as a question, and Carlos nods, hefting several plastic bags and a drink tray of Styrofoam cups. “If you don’t mind? I mean, I don’t want to intrude, but I thought… I thought you could use some comfort food.” Before Cecil can say anything, Carlos continues, “I mean, if you don’t want it, it’s fine, I just grabbed some stuff from this little taqueria near the lab, just--”

Cecil can’t help himself: he laughs. His dear, sweet, precious Carlos, how caring to bring him food. “It’s fine my dear Carlos,” he says with a wide, not-quite-as-weary grin. “I’m not at all picky when it comes to food, especially if you’re bringing it up when you’re checking up at me.” Cecil steps out of the doorway and motions Carlos in, hands hidden in the overly long sleeves of his jacket.

“Not checking up on you,” Carlos corrects. Cecil just laughs again.

/=\=/=\ 

Cecil’s apartment isn't quite what he expected. Not that he had much expectations when he found the women were forcing him to check on Cecil.

“Trust me,” Rachelle said, mouth pressed in a thin line of determination as she hustled him to the door. “He’ll appreciate seeing you more than anyone else, especially after the shit day he’s just had.” Nils and Cass nod vigorously, helping Rachelle shove him out. Carlos gives Dave and Stan bemused looks, to which the other men shrug before they promptly kicked Carlos out of his own lab. Giving the door one last disgruntled look, he did what his family always did when someone had a bad day: he goes to the nearest taqueria, loads himself up with _horchatas_ , _aguas frescas_ , _barbacoa_ and all it’s fixings, and a big bag of _pon de dulce_ , and wanders over to the address Cass provided him. (He doesn't know how she got it, and he doesn't want to know.)

Which is why he’s now standing in Cecil’s apartment, following the man to the kitchen while taking everything in. The living room is small and messy but in such a way as to say it’s well lived in. Papers are scattered everywhere: scripts, chaotic sketches and doodles, pictures (mostly of space) and various odds and ends scattered everywhere.

On the love-seat pressed against one wall is an exceptionally fluffy looking blanket quite similar to Carlos', and just in front of the blanket is what looks to be a half-eaten bowl of soup balancing on a stack of papers. “If you've already eaten, that’s fine Cecil, I’ll just leave this and go.”

Cecil pauses in the kitchen doorway, glancing over his shoulder to give Mendez a half-hopeful, half-flustered look. “No, I haven’t, like, you don’t have to go if you, like, don’t want to.” Cecil meets Carlos' eyes quickly before fidgeting with the hem of his ( _not_ ) adorably over sized sweater. Really, Cecil’s pajamas are nothing what he expects: a ridiculously over sized sweater that looks like outer space, baggy purple flannel pants, and fuzzy lime green socks. Cecil’s next words come out in a mumble Carlos almost misses. “I’m glad you’re here, it helps.”

Carlos hums, setting bags and drinks down on Cecil’s kitchen counter. The paper bag with _pon de dulce_ goes in the microwave to keep it from going stale, the drinks go to one side, and he unwraps the foil keeping corn tortillas warm and opens up containers of cilantro, guacamole, _salsa verde_ and lime slices.

“So,” Cecil asks, drawing the word out in a sing-song way, “like, what is all this stuff?”

“ _Barbacoa_. It’s made of cow cheek. You put it on tortillas with cilantro, green salsa, lime, and salt. It’s really good. I've been eating it since I was a kid. Want me to fix you one up?” Carlos asks. When Cecil gives a curious little grin, Carlos takes that as a yes. “Plates and a fork?” Cecil points to the cabinet and reaches for a drawer beneath his position sitting on the counter. And Mendez has to suppress the urge to scold him for that, just a bit, cause kitchen counters are for cooking, not sitting. At least that’s what his mother told him and his siblings.

With a precision born of years of practice, Carlos slaps down two tortillas on each plate (corn tortillas, always corn, never flour tortillas made for _gringos_ ), loads it up with meat, and adds some cilantro and salt and lime before offering one plate to Cecil. The other man accepts it with a faint laugh, never taking his eyes from Carlos even as reaches for the _aguas frescas_. Setting aside the cups of _horchatas_ for part of dessert, he offers Cecil two cups. “Strawberry or mango?”

“Hn?” Cecil mumbles around a mouthful of food. His look is so childishly confused, Carlos chuckles.

“Strawberry or mango?” Already predicting Cecil’s next comment, he adds, “I love both, so you can have whichever you want.”

Cecil hums indecisively before deciding, “Mango.” Carlos watches as Cecil takes a cautious sip, grinning as the other man’s eyes widen in surprise before take a large gulp. “This is really good,” Cecil says, sounding vaguely surprised. “What is it?”

“ _Aguas frescas_ ,” Carlos replies, laughing as Cecil enthusiastically slurps at the drink, pausing only for bites of _barbacoa_. “It means ‘fresh water’. It’s a kind of fruit-water drink. It’s really healthy and tastes really good. They come in all of sorts of flavors in these big jugs, and you just fill up a cup with whatever flavor you want and pay for it with everything else.”

“I like it,” Cecil says with a wide grin, one that’s much more familiar to Carlos than the tired smile Cecil gave him earlier. He reaches for the _horchatas_ , pouting when Carlos gently pushes his hand away.

“Those are for dessert,” he scolds lightly, though it’s undermined when he laughs at the way Cecil’s eyes widen comically at the thought of dessert.

“What’s for dessert?”

“ _Pon de dulce_ ,” Carlos replies, munching on his own food. “They’re sort of like a sweet bread, and a distant, far superior relative to the cookie.”

Cecil laughs, and the pair falls into companionable silence as they eat. Finally, after four tacos, Cecil pauses to glance out from under his (surprisingly long) silver eyelashes. “Carlos,” he starts, staring at his wiggling toes in his lime green socks, “I, like, appreciate you doing this for me, I really do, but I was, like, wondering, why did you come all the way over here just to, like, bring me food and hang out with me and everything?”

Carlos can’t look Cecil in the eye as a deep red blush creeps to his cheeks ( _Dios Mio_ , Cecil’s managed to make him blush more in the past week or so than Carlos can recall blushing in the past year), so he turns and starts going through the _pon de dulce_. “In my family, if someone you care for has a bad day, it’s a tradition to go to their place with lots of food and hang out with them until they feel better. And I…” And this, this is where the words stick in his throat because this could go wrong very easily because Cecil is nice and deserves more than Carlos can give to him. “You’re my friend Cecil. I care for you just like all of my friends.” He pauses, then adds, “Besides, my family would strangle me if they knew I let you go hungry after a day like this one.”

Cecil nods thoughtfully, frowning slightly when he hands him a piece of _pon de dulce_ fresh out of the microwave. “Carlos. Carlos, it looks like a pig.”

Carlos nods. “It’s gingerbread. It tastes better if you heat it up and drink _horchatas_ with it.” Cecil gives him a look. “It’s made from rice, but it tastes like cinnamon and vanilla and kinda like milk. It’s my favorite, but it’s always for dessert.” This convinces Cecil, who nibbles on the edge of his gingerbread pig while sipping away at his drink.

They spend some time like this, quiet and peaceful, before Carlos murmurs, “I’d better be going home Cecil. It’s getting late.” Well, relatively speaking. Seven a.m. is early if you've been up since seven p.m.

Cecil makes a disappointed noise in the back of his throat, one Carlos doubts Cecil’s aware he made but nods. Clenching his _horchata_ with sweater paws, Cecil follows him to the door, and it’s only then that Carlos notices Cecil’s throat, or, more specifically, the scars there. There’s two Carlos can see, small-ish one just above his collarbone area.

Carlos isn't aware he’s frozen until Cecil turns to him, a frown on his face as he asks, “Carlos?” Of course, now Carlos can see the identical marks on the other side of his throat.

“Cecil,” Carlos says, voice quiet in a way that hides his concern and fury that someone would hurt _Cecil_ , Cecil who flinches and slaps a hand to his throat when Carlos asks, “What happened to your throat?”

When Cecil replies, his voice is light despite the tension his body betrays. “I don’t really know.”

“What?” Carlos asks dumbly, shocked by the reply.

Now there’s a clear edge of tension in his voice as Cecil repeats, “I don’t really know. I've had them for forever, before I can remember.”

Carlos nods, resisting the urge to check that the scars are healed correctly, that whoever did that to Cecil hasn't severed or torn any muscles or caused any other injury to Cecil. He doesn't press Cecil for any more information, disregarding his desperate urge to, not when Cecil looks painfully anxious as one hand grips his _horchata_ and the other rubs thoughtlessly at the pink marks. He just maneuvers through Cecil’s messy place and gives him a brief, one-armed hug in an effort to relax the other. Both their faces are an impressive beet red when Carlos pulls away a second later, ignoring the fascinating way his tattoos twitch along Cecil’s arms.

“I, um, better go. Um, g’night Cecil.”

Cecil smiles gently. “Good night, dear Carlos. Thank you very much.”

Carlos doesn’t reply, just nodding as he leaves Cecil’s apartment to his car.

/=\=/=\ 

When Carlos walks into the lab, he doesn't seem surprised to see his whole team waiting for him, because they are all nosy assholes who are eager to hear about the definitely-not-a-check-up. Or a date. It isn't that either, Carlos is quick to remind her as he walks in.

“Sure it isn't,” Rachelle sing-songs.

Carlos gives her that patented, Coulson-level _seriously, I keep you around, why do I keep you around again?_ look of his. He doesn't reply other than saying to C.C., “Get the toddler a full physical. She seems to be hallucinating.”

Everyone laughs, especially as she calls after Carlos (who’s already half way up the stairs, damn, he’s a fast SOB when he wants to be), “Love you too Carlos!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized Carlos' family is gonna be based on mine, and this is an actual tradition in my family: have a bad day? Have food. It's wonderful. Also, I might rewrite this all from Cecil's pov, but it'll stay like this for now.
> 
> Also, since I got both these chapters updated, I'll be adding to this as I work on the main story too.

**Author's Note:**

> Any ideas for other incidents?


End file.
